


#dadlife

by FifteenDozenTimes



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Commitment, Established Relationship, Kid Fic, M/M, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-27
Updated: 2011-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FifteenDozenTimes/pseuds/FifteenDozenTimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can freak out about anything.” It’s a joke, and it isn’t a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#dadlife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inlovewithnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/gifts).



> Set three years-ish in a hypothetical future where Dallon's divorced, too. Be careful, there's a tvtropes link hiding in this fic.

Watching Dallon try to get his kids ready for school with the dead weight that is Bronx when he’s mad about being awake hanging off his back is pretty hilarious. Just hilarious, not kind of sweet, or pretty much exactly the kind of thing Pete hadn’t thought he’d ever want before Bronx, just hilarious. Dallon’s smearing more peanut butter on his fingers than on Amelie’s toast, and he just breaks it into triangles instead of cutting it. When he shoves one half in Amelie’s mouth and puts the other in her outstretched hands, she glares at him until he makes like he’s going to wipe his hands off on her face and then giggles.

Weekes mornings are pretty awesome, maybe Pete should spend the night more often.

Knox is quietly munching on his cereal, watching Pete with big solemn eyes like he’s figured out some deep truth about the tiny dude sitting on the kitchen island. Dallon watches Pete the same way, sometimes; at least the six-year-old probably hasn’t actually figured anything out, unlike his stupidly perceptive father.

“Can you?” Dallon asks, backs up to the island and gestures to Bronx. Pete peels him off, not without some difficulty (he’s getting way too big to just hang off people like that, not that Pete is the best example of how big is too big, but one of the nice things about bringing him over is how Dallon doesn’t seem in any rush to get Bronx to stop being so…Pete’s-offspring-y), and holds him while Dallon peanut butters more toast and shoves a triangle into Bronx’s mouth.

“Oh,” Dallon says, while he shoves two lunches into their respective boxes (Spiderman for Amelie, My Little Pony for Knox), “do you wanna stay over again tonight and get them to school tomorrow? Brendon’s at peak anxiety and I’m not sure I’ll get out before midnight. If I could stay ’til, like, two, that’d make everybody happy, but no way am I doing that unless I can sleep through the alarm.”

“Uh,” Pete says. Is that really as casual a question as Dallon makes it sound? It’s like - there’s a whole System they have in the morning, and probably getting to come in and change the system is a thing. Maybe it’s not a thing? One of those things only Pete thinks is a thing?

“And I’ll take Bronx to his afternoon class,” Dallon says, like he hasn’t even noticed Pete’s what-the-fuck-is-this-and-what-the-fuck-do-I-do crisis. Probably he hasn’t, he hasn’t turned around to look at Pete since he asked. Knox is still staring, though.

“I could, like,” Pete starts, but he doesn’t actually have a suggestion that would get Dallon’s kids to school without Pete feeling like he’s being eased into the stepdad role. Not that - obviously they’re not so much casual, not with the kids involved, but slow. Slower is better.

Dallon shuts the lunch boxes and turns around. “Are you freaking out?” he asks, frowning. “How is this even something to freak out about?”

“I can freak out about anything.” It’s a joke, and it isn’t a joke. Amelie giggles a little where she’s washing her hands; Pete’s not totally sure it’s a good thing that she’s learning how to deal with him.

“Hm,” Dallon says. “You’re going to leave while I’m bringing them to school so we don’t have to talk about this when I get back, aren’t you.”

“Probably,” Pete says. His skin feels too small for him; he can go home and call Patrick and make him fix it. Except for how he promised himself he wasn’t gonna do that anymore. Brendon, maybe, Brendon won’t fix it, but he’ll listen. And remind Pete again that he doesn’t actually have a secret How Dallon Works manual hidden anywhere. And probably freak out about Pete breaking his bass player, if he really is at peak anxiety. Okay. But. Home.

“Hm,” Dallon says again. “Okay. I think I saw Bronx’s backpack under the bed in Knox’s room. Lock the door when you leave.” Dallon leans in to kiss Pete before he bundles the kids out the door, so probably things are okay.

*

 _ **petewentz** <http://bit.ly/budoyH>_

Dallon pauses with his thumb over the link. On the one hand, Ian and Brendon have hit the portion of the evening where they get so into messing with guitar parts they kind of forget there’s a rhythm section, so he has maybe half an hour to deal if it turns out to be a crisis tweet and not, like, a picture of a dog. Plus, the kids are pretty sound asleep upstairs, so he could probably slip out to get to Pete’s if it turns out to be a real crisis. On the other hand, it’s inching towards midnight, and dealing with Pete when he gets like this usually takes a few hours, and he knows he won’t sleep if he’s worrying, and he kind of needs to be awake enough to not crash into a tree in the morning.

It’s funny how he’s pretending he can think (know, really) Pete’s having a relationship crisis and ignore it. And funny how he ever considered the link would lead to anything other than a bunch of shit about fictional wicked stepmothers. Of course it does.

 _ **dallonweekes** @petewentz if those guys who married evil are so smart, how come they're dead and i'm not?_

 _ **petewentz** @dallonweekes not dead. fictional. important difference._

 _ **dallonweekes** @petewentz you think?_

“Dallon,” Spencer says, “do you need to leave?” He’s looking between his phone and Dallon; for someone who claims to avoid Twitter unless he has something nonsensical to say, he sure keeps a careful eye on things.

“We’re nowhere near done,” Brendon says, because of course that would be what drew his attention away from the dueling guitar thing.

Spencer shrugs. “He said midnight if he couldn’t find a sitter, bro, you had plenty of warning.”

“But- “

“The song’ll still be here in the morning,” Spencer says. He’s kind of glaring at Brendon, and Brendon looks a lot more confused than the conversation calls for. Possibly he’s figured out that if both Dallon and Spencer are glued to their phones, they’re not just checking the time. Especially when Dallon’s phone goes off again, a text instead of a tweet this time.

 _fucking mind games_

Yeah, okay, if Spencer’s giving him an out, Dallon’s taking it. Spencer’s better at dealing with Brendon and whatever Pete issues Dallon’s pretty sure Brendon has, anyway.

 _it’s not a mind game, dick. I’m coming over, make coffee if you plan to keep me up all night._

Dallon’s halfway to Pete’s before he realizes Pete didn’t respond by apologizing for whatever his deal is, or telling Dallon he doesn’t have to come, or one of the million other things Dallon’s tried to convince him aren’t really productive. Huh, progress.

His phone buzzes as he’s pulling into Pete’s driveway, and Dallon mentally prepares to accept they haven’t really made the progress he’d thought, that Pete’s apology or insistence he’s not worth the time Dallon wants to put in just came later than usual.

 _ **petewentz** slumber party with little human’s favorite dudes and mine #stepdadlife_

Yeah, okay, they’re definitely making progress.


End file.
